hasta la vista, baby
by malfoyforever
Summary: Ten drabbles of ten of my OTPs - multiple eras. Oneshot. LuciusNarcissa, ScorpiusRose, DaphneTheodore, CharlieTonks, BenjyDorcas, SeamusFlora, BellatrixVoldemort, TeddyVictoire, NevilleLuna, HelgaSalazar. ONESHOT, COMPLETE.


**i. LuciusNarcissa **

_green and silver_

"I'll give you a piece of chewing gum if you give me back my tie," he pleads one day, when they're fighting _once again_ in the Slytherin common room. "It's really _good_, Black."

She fingers the tie – hey, she doesn't feel like sharing today. Instead of answering, she presses the soft, patterned fabric – green and silver, Slytherins do have a weakness for one color of money (and if Gryffindors have gold, they'll have silver) and the color of... trees? – against her cheek.

"Mm," she murmurs, rubbing harder and smirking at him, "feels good, this does. What softener do you use?"

He groans and rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Narcissa? I'm not an elf, you know. _Not_ answering."

"Then, I'm not giving this back," she shrugs. Well, she _did_ say she was in a foul mood today. She got detention with Slughorn (really?), had to console April once again (why can't she and Nott break up, already? He's a damn prick), and had heaps of homework from McGonagall (talk about prejudiced).

On top of it all, Malfoy expects her to pay attention to _him_? _Merlin._

He gets up from his spot on the sofa and walks over to her, towering over her (disconcerting, really - she can still remember a time when they were about the same size, playing side by side, her with dolls, and him with tiny little soldiers) and tries (unsuccessfully) to pry it from her hands.

"Are you PMS-ing?" he asks finally, earning a few laughs from her.

She tucks the tie in her pocket. "_No_, Malfoy. And what kind of bloke asks things like that? It's not _gentleman_ behaviour."

He pouts at her and tilts his head. "Well, I'm _not_ a gentleman." He smirks. "And I'm a Malfoy, Black."

"Yeah, yeah, don't care, like this's not the first time you've thrown the 'Malfoy' excuse at me," she mutters, "You could be a Weasley with manners of yours." She bites her lip in thought, and he thinks that maybe finally, finally she'll relent and give him back the tie, because he doesn't fancy not looking his best at tomorrow's classes. He's got a gold standard reputation to keep, you know, _very_ important.

"Yes?" he presses her, his face expectant, his lips pulled back into something resembling a smile. "Yeah, Cissa?"

She holds up a hand, palm up, and uses the other to throw the tie to the other side of the room, where some awfully insolent first years are sitting. "Chewing gum?" she says sweetly, her tie-free hand on her hip, smiling up at him. "I don't have the tie anymore, do I?"

"Bitch," he mutters, whipping out his wand to Summon his tie, and practically slapping a piece of gum onto her palm.

**ii. ScorpiusRose **

_dessert _

She's just enjoying her perfectly peaceful dinner (if listening Patricia discuss this week's new boy is qualified as peaceful, but Rose Weasley assures you that yes, you get used to her babbles) when that familiar oh-so-annoying (handsome) face pops out behind her.

"You want your treacle tarts?" he asks innocently, all widened grey eyes and big, big smiles, his hand on her shoulder.

The first thing she does is remove it delicately. "_Yes_," she says curtly, arms crossed, glaring. "I _love_ treacle tarts."

"I'll give you my lemon meringue," Caroline Lee pipes up beside her best friend, "if you're really hungry, Scorpius."

He winks at her (Merlin, what happened to the sweet, innocent boy on the Hogwarts Express in first year?) and shakes his head slowly. "Only Rosie-Bun's treacle tarts can satisfy my enormous, Quidditch-induced appetite," he says, pulling at his badly-done Gryffindor tie at the same time. "Now, now, Rosie-"

"Rose," she snaps, "and where the hell did you become so bloody annoying? You were _fine_ two years ago."

"He's just acting out," Amy Jordan says calmly, her twin nodding in approval. "Rodney, Godric, was insufferable when he was fourteen. All blokes go through... er, particular stages such as this during adolescence. Right, Kayla?"

"Thank you for putting it so sensitively," Al calls from across the table, scowling at them, "Scorpius and I feel _so_ much better."

"Hey," Rose points her finger at him, and then at her and the girls, "we're going through adolescence as well, in case you pricks hadn't bloody noticed, and we're not insufferable brats like you are-"

"_Really_?" her cousin always had a short temper, especially with her. "Have you thought about our side _at all_?"

"Let's not fight," Scorpius sounds more like his old self now, if not for the fact that he's smirking. "Okay, Rose?"

"Oh, you're the one to talk," she practically snarls at him, her grey blue eyes flashing. "You're the one who started it all, Malfoy! When don't you sort it out, eh?"

"Maybe," Caroline points out timidly, "he can't."

"Why not?"

Caroline visibly flinches; she hates dealing with her friend when she's in a mood like this one. "Er," she says hesitantly, "Er... He's gone."

"He took your dessert plate," Patricia's the one to finish, matter-of-fact.

Rose looks, as if for confirmation, and glares. Swiftly, she takes her book bag from under her feet and stomps out of the Great Hall in the direction of their next class, Transfiguration – Malfoy's in it big-time, she thinks, huffing.

None of them try to talk her to reason; an angry Rose Weasley is known to be more dangerous than a herd of angry Hippogriffs – and _that's_ saying something.

**iii. DaphneTheodore **

_bad examples_

He finds her sitting cross-legged on their sofa, reading a Muggle romance novel (she's always had a weakness for those), truffles on her lap (a birthday present from her youngest sister, Mosy).

"Hey, Daph," he greets, as is their long-standing custom, and she raises a hand in response, chocolate brown eyes not even rising from her book. "Ally asleep yet?"

She stares at him and then sighs in relief. "Yes. Yes, she's sleeping, all right – just one thing, though, Nott."

He winces at the sound his surname and unconsciously begins running his hand through his butterscotch-coloured hair. "Er," he begins, clearing his throat, because he has a damn good idea about what she's talking about, "Er – what are you talking about, Daphne?"

She narrows her eyes at him. For a Slytherin, he's pretty bad at lying – but maybe their little daughter's birth softened his heart, or something, because the Theodore Nott she remembers from Hogwarts hexed without questioning and lied smoothly.

"Where, pray tell," she says softly, smirking a bit, "did she learn the word 'arsehole', love?"

He nearly sighs in relief; that isn't what he had been thinking about. He puffs out his chest. "Scorpius," he raises an eyebrow at her, and quick like that, he's back to normal; back to cool, borderline rude, _arrogant_ Theodore. "Scorpius is known for his... occasional foul language, Daphne. You know how he repeats what his father and grandfather say."

"Well," she retorts, crossing her arms, "I'll go talk to Draco about it. You go find Lucius, eh? He _is_ your godfather."

He rolls his eyes. "Talking to the elder Malfoy, godfather or not, is not a pleasant experience." He pauses. "And considering the fact that he's drunk half the time and ill the rest... I suppose I could ask Narcissa-"

"Coward," she interrupts, waving her hand in the air. "You fought in the Battle of Hogwarts with me, and you're scared of _Lucius Malfoy_? Bloody hell, Theodore. The man can't do anything to you – anyways, didn't he spoil you silly when you were younger?"

"Well," he says hesitantly, "I _suppose_..."

"Touché."

And just like that, she leaves the room, taking her book and scooping the box of Belgian truffles in the process, patting his head as she passes his tall, thin frame.

**iv. CharlieTonks **

_chasing _

They're lying with their camp beds pushed into something like a double bed, staring at the ceiling as they speak in the darkness, to each other.

It should be _awkward_; it should be incredibly _tense_; but really, it feels like the most _natural_ thing in the world.

They've been best mates for six years, after all; on September 1st, they're going to board the Hogwarts Express for one of the last times in their entire lives.

"You know, Charlie," she says unexpectedly, her now-blue eyes shining in the darkness, "Loads of people say you should play for England. They reckon you're good enough." When he doesn't respond, she taps his shoulder lightly. "_I_ think you're good enough," she adds, as if that would change anything.

Actually, it does; his cheeks burn; luckily, she can't see. "I know," he replies, a bit crossly, a bit proudly. "but I told you, Tonks – I want to be a dragon chaser."

She giggles, and he feels himself relaxing. "Dragon chaser, huh?" She elbows his side lightly. "Doesn't exist like a _job_."

"Does _too_!" he protests, punching her shoulder playfully. She giggles again.

"Well, I mean," she frowns, "like a _desk_ job. Don't your mum and dad want you for Minister or something?"

He laughs. "No, that's Perce. Me, I'm supposed to be working with Bagman. Apparently."

"Apparently," she echoes. "You can be anything you want to be, Charlie. Like me. Mum wants me to be a Potions Mistress, but I always say no – and did you see me with Snape in fifth year? Did you _hear _how he yelled when I spilled those cauldrons? And it was only a minor incident."

"Minor?" He chuckles. "You call spilling half of the class's cauldrons minor?"

"Okay," she admits. "It's... moderate. Not severe. Like he said."

"Well," he concedes, "Snape thinks everything's severe. He's _Severus_ Snape."

She laughs, putting her hands over her face to muffle the sounds. "_Charlie_! You and your random bits of knowledge, huh! How did you know that? I'm betting my allowance that you don't spend your time reading up Latin!"

"Actually," he smirks, "Bill told me. So you give me ten Sickles?"

"_Cheap_," she yawns. "You know, I want to save up to be an Auror."

"So you can't pay me?" he pouts. "What a shame, _Nymphadora_."

"Not funny," she huffs. "And stop laughing at me for wanting to be an Auror."

"Well," he points out. "You're taking all the courses for it – and failing Potions, might I add. Oh, and you're extremely... balance-challenged."

She slaps him. "Nicely put, Charlie," she observes. "_Very_ delicately."

He can tell that she's sincerely annoyed (why are girls so bloody hormonal?) and apologizes in his _Charlie_ sort of way. "Tonks, you know I'm just watching out for you. What if you're not let into the program? What if Snape fails you? What if-"

"And I'm telling you to stop it," she mumbles. "Stop worrying, Charlie. You're winding me up."

"Thanks," he says sarcastically.

"Call me in the morning," she yawns and turns over. "We'll be more... agreeable then. I don't _fancy _arguing at night. Goodnight, Dragon Boy."

"Goodnight, Auror Girl."

He turns to his side and tries to sleep as well, but he can only toss and turn long after she's gone to sleep and think about how her body feel against his, her soft skin against his calloused hands and dry lips. He tries to chase those thoughts away – because how is he supposed to chase dragons when he can't even chase away those black little thoughts turning in his own head?

**v. BenjyDorcas**

_universe _

"Actually," Dorcas says, bending over the map of Malfoy Manor, "This is not very important."

Benjy looks up at her, gaping. "_Excuse_ me?"

They've been paired up for the second time by Dumbledore; now, they're looking over the map of the grounds and buildings of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire – they're planning to break in with two others, Emmeline and Remus, later this week.

Benjy Fenwick is still not entirely used to the rather eccentric ways of his companion, who graduated about a year back; she's about three years younger than him. Adding to the problem is her declaration from the last mission; apparently, he's better than Sugar Quills and Acid Pops.

Apparently, she loves him.

Well, he isn't sure that she remembers; she was on pain potions when she yelled it at him – and he isn't exactly going to remind it to her.

She brushes a stray strand of black hair from her face and stares at him with electric blue eyes.

"It's not important," she repeats, her hand on his arm. He wishes she wouldn't do this, really; his heart leaps in his chest. "We're a tiny portion of the universe."

"So?" he prompts, staring at her. "Dorcas... This war business... It's not exactly a game..."

"I _didn't_ say that," she interrupts, frowning at him, "but Benjy, you know, even if Voldemort wins-"

"He _won't_ win," he snaps, glaring. "We'll never let him."

She pursues her lips. "It's possible. Don't you ever think about it?"

"I try not to," he says dryly. "It's good to be optimistic."

"Well, if you did," she puts her hand over his, "you'd find it's not that bad."

"Er, Dorcas," this is another of her crazy Ravenclaw ideas, "Dorcas... We're talking about _Voldemort_. Not some measly Death Eater."

"I mean," she ignores him, "we could still defy him."

"Defy him? Godric, Dorcas... He'd kill us!"

"Death is but the next adventure," she says in her calm voice, "Dumbledore told me that."

Benjy puts his head in his arms. It's useless, arguing with a Ravenclaw, he thinks, even an especially odd one.

**vi. SeamusFlora **

_egoistic _

"You know," she says one day, their feet kicking in the lake's cool water, "you Gryffindor types are rather egoistic."

He puffs out his chest. "Excuse me? You should look at yourselves."

"Actually," she smirks, "_you_ are the arrogant ones, Finnigan. We, we merely spit back what you spat at us." She makes a face at him. "It's called retribution, I think."

"I _know_ what retribution means," he snaps. "It's a fancy word for vengeance."

She nods. "_Exactly_." She twirls her wand in her fingers and faces him. "And you know," she continues, "we Slytherins, we're actually very fine with how we're treated, nowadays."

"How _are _you treated nowadays?" he asks, scratching his chin. He doesn't know why he asked this; he's not sure he even wants to know the answer.

"Like third-class citizens," she glares at him, as if it's his fault, cinnamon-coloured eyes narrowed tightly. "I hate the Ministry these days, mind you, Finnigan. They're stupid, bumbling, prejudiced arses, all Slytherin-haters and Gryffindor-worshippers! And they're saying that they're all for _equality_."

"Aren't they?" he inquires, throwing a pebble into the blackish water of the lake. "I mean, before, they used to judge by blood status-"

"I don't know," she interrupts, crossing her arms, "why I even _bother_ to talk to you, Finnigan! You're just another Gryffindor, stupid and reckless and idiotic and egoistic! You think you know about equality? You _don't_."

"I do," he retorts, scowling.

"If you did, you'd understand. Nott, Greengrass? They fought in the final battle against the Death Eaters. But while the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who fought against the Dark Lord in the final battle got an Order of the Merlin, Second Class, they got an Order of Merlin, _Third_ Class."

Her chest falls and rises and she glares once more before storming off; he knows better than to follow her. He stays on the edge of the quay, his feet still in the chilling water, and wonders when Flora Carrow will realise that he's in love with her.

**vii. BellatrixVoldemort **

_dancer _

Long legs, supple body; Rodolphus always told her she had a dancer's body, ready to charm any man, to steal any of their minable hearts.

What he _didn't_ tell her: it was impossible to ensnare Lord Voldemort's heart of stone (or did he even have a heart? It was quite doubtful).

She sashays to the front of the crowd, past Nott, Malfoy, Goyle; she has to be in front, you know; she's the Dark Lord's favourite, his most loyal servant, his pet, his toy. He looks at her just before starting his opening speech; his lip curls into something like a smile.

She beams and listens, listens, listens; she drinks in his every word as if he were her drug; she goes to find him after the rest of them leave.

Or rather, she dances her way there, twirling and chanting in that deranged way of hers.

"My Lord," she says, kneeling at the foot of him, and kissing the hem of his robes, "My Lord, I'd like to volunteer myself for the next mission."

He smiles down at her; to a regular, sane person it looks scary; to Bellatrix Lestrange, it fills her hairy heart with a gruesome hope. "Bellatrix," he replies slowly, softly, tilting his head at her. "Bellatrix, my dear – my most loyal servant – you wish to accompany Malfoy and Nott in their next mission, are you sure?"

"I am certain, my Lord," _anything for him to notice her, praise her_.

His lip curls. "It will be terribly dull, I am afraid, Bella," his cold hand tips up her chin for her to look at him in the eye. She flushes with pleasure and resists the urge to start her usual game, the one she's mistress at; the one which broke so many hearts at Hogwarts, the one which still does. "I am sending two of my servants, mediocre servants, to, ah, kidnap the Order member – Peter Pettigrew, I am sure you remember?" She nods. "It will be a step different from the usual torture. No Mudbloods this time – only a measly blood traitor."

"Ooh, my Lord," she simpers, flushing, "I _love_ blood traitors."

He is not sure which decision to take; while Bellatrix is certainly competent, she tends be a tiny bit... rash when it came to questioning; kill first, speak later. Of course, he needs the blood traitor delivered alive; Malfoy and Nott are a good team...

But Bellatrix would be a good addition, he counter-thinks; she can keep them in line.

He delivers his final verdict. "As long as you don't kill Malfoy or Nott, Bellatrix. I cannot afford to lose any more servants – is that clear? Furthermore, you must keep Pettigrew alive, or you shall be punished most severely, do you understand?"

"Of course. I am most grateful, my Lord."

She turns to leave, disappointed; then, he calls her.

He's smiling now. She was a good servant; she deserved something. He's bored, anyway; he doesn't have any specific plans for the evening.

"Care to join me for a bubble bath, Bellatrix?"

**viii. TeddyVictoire **

_baking_

He's finally lured out of his room by the smell of baking.

(Hey, it's not his fault: he's a bloke, after all; he's allowed to eat, okay?)

"What're you doing?" he says, trying to act nonchalant.

She pauses in her stirring and then smiles at him; again, he marvels at the difference between her and her sister. If it had been Dominique, she would have scowled; she would have snapped something in that rude Slytherin way of hers and then stomped off.

(It's no secret which one of them he prefers.)

"Baking," she says good-naturedly, stating the obvious.

"Baking _what_?" He's really hungry now.

"Baking muffins," she frowns. "It's for the Christmas feast." Winking at him, she continues, "Yes, for the Christmas feast; it's off-hands until we get to the Burrow, Teddy – I'm _serious_. What will James and Fred and all the rest of those hungry blokes say when I come empty-handed?"

"Bring chips," he suggests. "James loves them. And Fred's just a little kid, he won't notice anything."

She rolls her eyes and stirs harder. "Well," she sticks a hand in the bowl to taste, and his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in envy, "that's nice of you, Teddy Lupin. What type of Gryffindor are you? You're suggesting we dupe them?"

"A _hungry _Gryffindor," he replies cheekily, earning himself a whack on the back of his head.

"Very funny, Teddy Lupin," she shakes her head. "I promise that you'll get to taste the icing. Now sod off, will you?"

If only the scent of the muffins baking wouldn't float over to his room, Teddy thinks as he looks at his Auror paperwork, his mind not registering a thing written on the official documents.

(He has to clean drool-spots from the parchment papers that he notices later on, when the muffins are in all of their stomachs and gone, gone, gone.)

**ix. NevilleLuna **

_nargles _

Once Dumbledore's Army is up and running once again, time passes as quickly as a flash of lightning; before they know it, it's Christmas.

He stays behind to clean up the tinsel and the wrapping paper, telling the elves that are here to assist them that they're fine. Even the Carrows don't take down the Christmas decorations Merlin-knows-who put on in the Great Hall and all round the school; it makes them seem a tiny bit more human until Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein report that they've tortured yet another first year.

Luna's the only one remaining now; she sits in her lonely little corner, wand tucked behind her ear as always, radish earrings on, a Butterbeer-cork necklace round her neck. He approaches her slowly; he realises his hands are shaking.

"Not going to the feast, Luna?" he inquires, sitting down beside her.

She shakes her head in that serene manner of hers; he sometimes wonders how the bloody hell she does to stay so calm all the time. "No. I'm not feeling hungry." She hugs her knees to her chest. "I'm scared."

She says it matter-of-fact, as if it were perfectly normal; he supposes it is. They're in wartime, after all; they live in a school controlled by Death Eaters; devils, monsters, psychopaths. Nevertheless, he's slightly unnerved by her words. "It's okay to be scared," he tells her. "It means we're human. Unlike _them_."

She blinks her overly large grey eyes. "That's very nice of you, Neville," she says softly, taking his head. "Hmm. Did they use a Blood Quill on you?"

"They used loads of obscure things on me," he replies, pulling away. "Don't worry. I'm used to it."

She ignores him. "Let me see," she insists. When he stops resisting, she reads the words etched over the skin of his hand: _Blood traitor_. They chill her to her core, though she tries to not let it show. She gingerly takes it and presses her lips to the scars. She can feel his pulse beating strongly; she rests his warm hand against the skin of her cheek.

"You shouldn't get used to it," she says in that sing-song way of hers. "They have no right to do this to you. I wish..."

He knows what she's going to say. "I know," he sighs; it's weary, bone-tired. "I hope this'll end soon. I'm tired of always being afraid, Luna."

"So am I," she agrees. "But we can still be happy. See that mistletoe there? It's infested by _happy_ Nargles."

He laughs; not meanly, more like he genuinely thinks it's funny. She likes that; she's all-too-used to laughing, snickering, smirking, sneering boys. "How do you know they're happy?" he asks quietly. "They told you?"

"No," she smiles. "They're at home there, aren't they?"

"Yeah," he fiddles with his tie; red and gold. He's questioning his Gryffindor Sorting again, something he hasn't done in months. "Luna... I just wanted to say..."

"Happy Christmas?" she interrupts, beaming. She pulls him to his feet. "You fancy a dance and eggnog?"

"Er... what?"

"A dance and eggnog," she repeats patiently. "A tradition Daddy and me have. Come on, Neville. Let's have some fun, for once – fun is what makes our worries float away."

"And the eggnog?" He's still not entirely convinced.

"Trust me."

And that is how Neville Longbottom spent an evening in the Room of Requirement, simply twirling in circles with Luna Lovegood to the rhythm of her hums, watching her radish earrings dangle from her ears and drinking eggnog.

(Not excluding, of course, the oh-so-famous kiss under the Nargle-infested mistletoe.)

**x. HelgaSalazar **

_interesting _

Salazar Slytherin is nothing but _interesting_, Helga muses one day, as she and Rowena lounge in the staff room after a particularly laborious day.

"What do you think about Salazar, Helga?" Rowena asks her, looking at herself in the mirror. Rowena has many qualities that Helga appreciates dearly, but the woman is nothing but _vain_; and with reason, as well, Helga heard Godric tell Salazar a few days back.

"Salazar?" Helga smiles a tiny bit. "He's quite charming, I find."

Rowena is too dignified to squeal, but she gifts her friend with a rare grin; not a ladylike smile, but a real, childish grin. "Helga," she says, seriously as usual, "I _do_ believe you fancy him."

"Rowena," she frowns, "I do _not_."

Her friend gets up and pecks her cheek. "I will to off to relax in my quarters," Rowena tells her with an amicable pat. "I would like to add, my dear, that I am absolutely certain that he fancies you as well. I know him, you know; we've grown up together."

The door shuts behind her, her robes swishing in the rhythm of the swaying of her hips.

Helga ponders this; she decides to seek refuge in her wine cellar, to drink a bit of her beloved apple cider.

She always does this when she's pensive, when she needs to think things out. She uncorks it and sips gently, tipping it to her lips.

The dinner bell has rung twice before she peeks out; for a moment, she thinks she's alone. Then, Salazar turns the corner; their eyes meet, warm teak and cold black. He narrows his eyes at her and fiddles with his collar, tipping his pointed black hat.

"Helga," he says softly, as she blushes from his gentleman's manner; she knows for a fact that he doesn't do this with Rowena or any other women, "I must say, I _am_ surprised. You have never been late for supper, so far. Rowena and Godric are most, ah, worried."

"I am fine," she assures him, "I just needed some time to think about things."

"Thinking about things," he murmurs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "How interesting... May I ask the nature of these things, Helga?"

"It's rather private, sorry," Helga says, almost apologetically. She frowns. "I have a question, though, Salazar."

"You may ask on," Salazar smirks, "I promise you that I will not bite."

"Yes," she's a tiny bit irritated, "Why aren't _you_ at dinner, Salazar?"

His long dark hair is cascading down his shoulders and he's staring at her with his black eyes narrowed, down from his narrow nose. "I was in a mood for a stroll," he says quietly, in that charismatic tone his voice tends to have. His eyebrows rise at her. "Dare you accompany me, Helga?"

She looks at his outstretched hand and tells herself this is just a walk with a friend.

"With pleasure, Salazar."

(But she's sure _friends_ wouldn't kiss each other goodnight like two teenagers after the said stroll, though.)


End file.
